With perfect equanimity, ignoring Simon’s unrelievedly dark looks, she set herself to entertain her neighbors, Mr. Archer and Mr. Buckstead, the two of the company least aware of the drama being enacted under their noses.

When the ladies rose, she joined them, her expression easy and content. But as she drew level with Simon on the other side of the table, on his feet as were all the gentlemen as the ladies filed out, she deliberately, coldly, challengingly, met his gaze. Held it. Equally deliberately, as she came to Charlie, she raised a hand and ran her fingers along the back of his shoulders, briefly ruffling the hair at his nape, before smiling into Simon’s furious eyes. Letting her hand fall, she turned and, head high, glided out of the dining room.

Most had caught the moment.

Lady O’s black eyes narrowed to shards, but she said nothing. Just watched.

The other matrons were more openly censorious, but in the circumstances, could do little to interfere. Flirting, even of the type she was indulging in, had never been a crime within the ton; it was only the memory of Kitty that now made it seem so dangerous in their eyes.

Nevertheless, she gave them no other opening to reproach her actively; she behaved as she normally would, with perfect grace, while they waited for the gentlemen to join them. Tonight, the last night of the house party, it would be viewed as odd if any gentleman excused himself, for whatever reason. They would all come, and relatively soon; they would all be present to witness the penultimate scene.

As the minutes ticked by, Portia felt her nerves tighten. She tried not to think of what was to come, yet, notch by notch, a vise closed about her lungs.

Finally, the doors opened and the gentlemen walked in. Lord Glossup led the way, Henry beside him. Simon followed, strolling beside James; his eyes searched the company and found her.

As they’d arranged, Charlie ambled in a few feet behind Simon.

Portia fixed her gaze on Charlie, let her face light with anticipation and more. Smiling delightedly, she left her position beside the chaise and crossed the room toward him.

Simon stepped sideways, blocking her path. His fingers closed about her elbow; he swung her to him. “If you could spare me a few minutes of your time.”

No question, no request.

Portia reacted, let her face set. She tried to twist her elbow free-winced when his grasp tightened and his fingers bit. Head rising, she met his gaze squarely-as belligerent, as challenging as she needed to be. “I think not.”

She felt it then-felt his anger rise like a wave and crash down on her.

“Indeed?” His tone was controlled; his fury swirled around them. “I believe you’ll find you’re mistaken.”

Even knowing the script they’d agreed to, knowing what he would do next, she still felt shocked when he bodily swung her to the windows and, her arm locked in an unforgiving grip, walked to the terrace doors.

Taking her with him.

She had to go-it was that or be openly dragged. Or lose her footing and fall. She’d never been physically compelled in her life; the sensation-her helplessness-was enough to send her temper into orbit. She could feel her cheeks flame.

He opened the doors and propelled her outside, marched her ruthlessly along until they were beyond the drawing room windows.

Not, quite, out of earshot.

They’d agreed that once they’d set the stage, they couldn’t afford not to play out the scene, not perform according to the script.

She finally succeeded in dragging in a breath. “How dare you?” Out of sight of the others, she halted, struggled.

He released her, but she sensed the momentary hesitation-the fractional pause while he forced his fingers to let her go.

She faced him, glared, searched his eyes-saw he was as close to truly losing his temper as she was to losing hers.

“Don’t you dare upbraid me.” She took a step back-remembered their rehearsed script. Lifted her chin. “I’m not yours to dictate to-I don’t belong to you.”

She hadn’t thought his expression could get harder, but it did.

He stepped toward her, closing the distance. His eyes were shards of blue flint, his gaze sharp enough to slice. “And what of me?” The suppressed fury in his voice vibrated through her. “Am I some toy you enjoy and then blithely toss away? Some lapdog you tease with your favors, then kick aside when you grow bored?”

Staring into his eyes, she abruptly wavered her resolve. Her heart wrenched as she realized he was voicing real fears-that the pretense, for him, echoed a reality he was supremely vulnerable to…

The urge-the need-to reassure him nearly flattened her. She had to call on every ounce of her will to hold his gaze, lift her head until her spine ached, and lash back at him. “It’s not my fault you misread things-that your never-faltering masculine ego couldn’t believe I wasn’t fascinated to blindness with you.” Her voice rose, contemptuous and defiant. “I never promised you anything.”

“Hah!” His laugh was harsh and hollow. “You and your promises.”

Simon looked at her, deliberately let his gaze travel down, then insolently back up to her face. His lip curled. “You’re nothing but a high-bred cocktease.”

Her eyes blazed. She slapped him.

Even though he’d intended to goad her into it, it still shocked. Stung.

“You’re nothing but an insensitive clod.” Her voice wavered with genuine passion; her breasts swelled as she drew breath. “Why I bothered with you… I can’t believe I wasted my time! I never want to see you or speak to-”

“If we never exchange another word in this lifetime, it will still be too soon for me.”

She held his gaze. Between them, around them, temper-both his and hers-swirled, touching but not investing, coloring but not truly driving. They were still acting, but…

Dragging in a shaky breath, she drew herself up and looked down her nose at him. “I have nothing more to say to you. I don’t wish to set eyes on you again-not ever!”

He felt his jaw clench. “That’s one thing I’ll be happy to promise.” He ground out the words, capped them with, “If you’ll do the same?”

“That will be a pleasure. Good-bye!”

She spun on her heel and stormed off down the terrace. The tempo of her steps echoed, a clear indication of her state.

He hauled in a breath, held it-desperately fought the urge to follow her. Knew the moon cast his shadow back along the terrace, that anyone watching from the drawing room would know she’d gone off alone-that he wasn’t following her.

She reached the lawns and headed straight for the lake path.

Swinging around, he strode back up the terrace, past the drawing room doors, ajar as he’d left them; without a glance to left or right, he headed for the stables.

Prayed he’d have time to circle around and join her before the murderer did.

17

Portia strode rapidly across the lawn and on toward the lake. She’d imagined doing so eagerly if anxiously; the tumult of emotions roiling inside her made it easy to appear overset.